


Stiff

by AnonymousDumbass



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types
Genre: I dont know what to tag this its a syo getting some fucking help fic, Police, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:53:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22789027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnonymousDumbass/pseuds/AnonymousDumbass
Summary: Genocider Sho doesn't get caught. She doesn't need help; she's specifically electrifyingly herself.But then they come.So this is inspired by other works I've seen, doing fics about Toko getting caught as Genocider Sho, and getting in contact with help, and things of that nature. And they're all unfinished from many years ago. So I decided to start writing one. This was impulsive and probably won't turn out great.Inspiration Work: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11299752/chapters/25282401
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	Stiff

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Talking Genocide](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11299752) by [EgohaAhoge](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EgohaAhoge/pseuds/EgohaAhoge). 



He screamed only once more, as scissors tore through fragile skin and blood, ripping like a roast ham. It was a rough, bloody scream, the kind to tear up your throat and leave you mute the next day. But he wouldn't have to worry about tomorrow. Her aim was imprecise, aiming loosely for the bullseye of his slowing heart. She could imagine how desperately it sputtered, trying to pump out blood, that was no longer inside his veins. Rather, it was pooling on the dusty hardwood floors. Blood gushed out from around her shining scissors. It splattered onto her hand, soaking into the white fabric of her sleeve cuffs.  _ Drip, drip, drip  _ drops of fuschia rained, wringing out the very last moments of his life. After that, he couldn't scream anymore. Not even if he wanted to.

Genocider took a step back. She almost slipped on the slick pink blood polishing the ebony wood. She admired her work, relishing in delight the rush of adrenalin sinking her blades into warm, living, writhing flesh brought. Her minutes left here were definitely numbered; Police were surely on their way, what with how loudly he shrieked when she stabbed him. But she felt compelled to stay here with her newest victim. His body was fresh, barely dead at all. His fingers twitched still, his muscles reacting from memory how his brain would never again. He looked so innocent, numb and dead. Like a corpse. It was a truly beautiful sight. Unforgettable every single lovely time.

A burst of rickety laughter shook her, cackling loudly in a deathly silent bedroom. It was a bland room really. Drab mauve walls surrounded an unoriginal neutral brown bed, with stone-grey sheets and snow-white pillows. The air was cold, and the late-night lighting cobalt blue. The window to her left was still open from her entrance, silk curtains fluttering in the draft breeze. Nothing but normalcy in a box. So instead of looking around she stared at her artwork. Her masterpiece of creation, made with the passionate care of any faithful artist such as herself. Detailing with pointalizm in specklets of blood the finishing touch, as one would add varnish to woodwork, or garnish to a platter. Her one and only true perfection. Would she be able to top the ornate paragon of murder, the pinnacle of spectacular death she'd created ever again?

She simply sat in wonder. Every part of his body she traced with her eyes. His limbs stiff, but limp. Kept in place like a diorama from middle school. A display of triumph, worship, love. Satisfaction twisted her lips in a sly, rotten smile. She sat on the edge of the bed, perched precariously on the foot board. Which is how she slammed into the floor when she jumped in surprise. 

Police sirens blared from the open window, droning screams shattering the quiet night. Red and blue lights filled the wall adjacent to the window, where the headboard of the bed was flush to the wall.

_ Fuck. _

She hurried over to the window. At least 7 police cars lined up the street from what she could see. This view was on the side of the house, however. There could very well be a dozen more cops on the other side. Climbing out where so many could see her was suicide. 

She shuffled out of the bedroom, running down the hallway. Through the hallway window, she could see at least 4 more cars. They really brought the whole circus for her.

It had never come this close. Never once did she ever let this happen. How did they find her? This should've gone off without a hitch, no one around the neighborhood none the wiser until they read all the gorey details in the news several days later. She had to run this time. To escape. There was nowhere to hide that they wouldn't find her. The infamous, sneaky, dastardly Genocider Sho had been trapped. Like some kind of amateur.

"We have the place surrounded!" A megaphone filtered voice boomed from outside. 

_ Fuck fuck fuck! _

She pushed on, toward the basement stairs, knocking over etcetera items on a hallway table as the ran past. They clattered onto the floor in her stead. There was a staircase to the backyard down there. That was her only shot

The out-of-date panels creak and groan like a harpsichord, playing the same note over and over under her swift steps. Flying down the stairs she heard clamorous shouts and bangs just outside. The ill-lit basement walls were simple plastic-covered insulation, the floor the gritty kind of concrete that barely crunched under your shoe and would stick like sand to you socks or bare feet. It brought bad memories of her childhood, sickening feelings of fear. Of course, those feelings did not belong to her. So she kept moving.

Moonlight led her to the metal door out of the basement. The heavy kind, made for containing fire. Today it kept the fire out. She could only see concrete steps outside the glass. She had to roll the dice. 

The door opened to…

… People. So many people it could've been considered an army. Clad in black and blue uniforms of law. Weapons drawn, ready to execute extreme force if necessary. Fear hit her. It was unfamiliar. It was not welcome.

"You are under arrest for the murders of Genocider Sho!" A loud man with a megaphone yelled. He hid behind a cruiser, one of many surrounding andentrapping the house, along with FBI black SUVs, and presumably a helicopter above her. Stark white spotlights shined on her, burning the longer she forced them open. She only had the instinct to run. And she ran as far as she could, straight into the throng of people, scissors equipped. Until electricity buzzed through her body. Spasms flailed her limbs, dragging her harshly to the ground. Falling, the bright, assaulting world came crashing down unforgivingly onto her weary head. 

The world was jet black again.


End file.
